Happily Whatever After
by damn expensive eggs
Summary: Mirror, mirror, on the wall, what the hell is this crack? ... It's for a contest. Contains: Fairytale parody, crossdressing, cupcakes, bondage, and... oh, yeah, gnomes. still pretty funny three years later.


**A/N: **Hi guys. 8) I dun even know what to say about this lol. It's just, well, it is what it is. It's a crazy-ass mix of parody and horror. Almost horror. It gets a little gorey at one point but I think you can handle it. This is the literal of South Park meets a Disney movie. LOL. That should be enough. Also, yeah, the main reason I wrote this was because of SoraDestati's fairytale contest over on dA. Totally inspired! It's the first time I ever really entered a contest, on dA, really. XD

Also the title really sucks. I didn't know what to do that wouldn't give out like, the best parts of the story LOL. I just wanted it to be like a big sign that says READ IT well whatever. Exactly. Just whatever.

I posted this on dA too, which is like the first time I ever did that. I was feeling self-conscious and whatnot about this, and I still kinda am, but it's not meant to be taken seriously anyway. I just don't know which one will get more feedback? dhfdjshflkj I don't know.

Well, enjoy this crack.

* * *

Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom in a far away place , far away from anywhere else far away, there lived a young barista, with skin white as snow, and eyes dark as coffee, and hair yellow as a banana, or something. That is, if the banana is really ripe, and not half green or going bad and brown or anything. Anyway, this kid with his snow skin and banana hair, lived in this super faraway land called South Park, where he was under the rule of the evil Queen, or King, no one was really sure half the time, whose great, royal ass was dubbed Cartman. Cartman, here, loved his kingdom like no other ruler loved a land.

Though, that is only if he gets his way.

Cartman's way was a hard way to follow - and no one dared stray away from it. Should one of his servants decide for his own, or mock Cartman in any way, shape, or form, it was off with the heads of their birthgivers, whose remains would be chopped and cooked into gourmet chili, with nothing to do but be chained and shackled in the dark, cold dungeon, forced to eat said chili.

The boy with the skin white as snow and hair yellow as a school bus or something, was the most frightened, the most careful, the most determined to follow the great Fatass' rules in fear of the punishment. He was but a barista. It was his job to bring Cartman his coffee in the morning - it was his job to keep him awake and alert, much to his dismay. The last thing anyone wanted was for Cartman to be _awake_ and on watch for any of his rules or preferences being defied by the people who were supposed to keep them in place. This boy, humbly dubbed Tweek Tweak of South Park, was part of the reason Cartman could be Cartman.

It was one early morning, too early for anything to possibly be going right in Tweek's mind, when he was not-so delightfully brewing a practical gallon of milky, sugary, creamed-up coffee his highness. The bitter smell of black coffee and the flavors of every creamer they owned, filled the air with a peaceful aroma that made Tweek feel calmed and collected. He also held a desire, that he could have just the slightest taste of his concoction, just to be able to fathom what his highness enjoyed so much.

He eyed the small stirring spoon across the counter. He figured the risk of even making contact with the coffee with anything but the designated utensils could possibly earn him a trip to the Chili Chamber. _Oh, Jesus, not the Chili Chamber_...

But the urge was too strong. He held the little metallic spoon between his fingertips, and slowly eased it downwards towards the surface of the first finished cup—

"Hey!"

"_GYAH_—!" His heart skipped a beat as he dropped the spoon to the floor, and the clinking against the tiles was louder in his ears than either of the exclamations.

"Woah," said the other, "didn't mean to scare you."

Tweek held a hand over his heart to steady his irregular breathing. "Yeah, yeah, you did, everyone's out to scare me, get me, kill me..." he broke off in anxious mumbles as the other man approached him slowly. The other man was taller, sporting a familar blue hat, with raven hair—no, wait, scratch that—his hair was _black_. Black, like, boiling hot tar or something. Raven was too elegant of a bird to use to describe this man's informal appearance, despite that he was a prince. The self-proclaimed prince of his posse, that was. He was dubbed Craig Tucker of Those Guys, and boy, had he kept a creepy eye on the macaroni-and-cheese-haired barista.

"Why are you here?" Tweek cried, gripped onto the counter ledge behind him for dear life, "the King! He'll see you and kill you and kill your parents and—"

"Would you calm down?" Craig said louder than Tweek could feel comfortable with, "I just wanted to see you."

"Um, okay, yeah, now's not a good time, Mr. Prince, I have to take this coffee to you-know-who, otherwise he'll get _really_ mad, and, and, and Jesus, man! You gotta leave!" Not that Tweek had wanted Craig to leave so badly - he was just doing him a favor by lessening his chances to have to eat his parents or lose his own head.

"Fine, fine, but, God, you better be around later, okay?"

"I'm not making any promises," said Tweek, loading the several cups of the finished coffee into a tray, "just make sure none of the guards see you."

"How do you think I got in here?"

He could only imagine.

Tweek carefully yet shakily picked up the tray. He jolted his head towards the glass door. "Run, man, run!" he cried, as he began to walk, as fast as humanely possible without dropping the coffee nor the paper bag he picked up, towards the stairwell.

"Bitch, I am in _fucking tights!_" He heard Craig call, "I can't run in this shit!"

Tweek brushed off Craig's calling and sincerely hoped he would get out safely. He followed routine as he brought the coffee up seven flights of stairs to his King, who was on his bed, basking in all his weight and power. He was hardly awake, but slightly careened upwards at the sight of Tweek in the wide doorway.

"Permission to enter, Your Majesty?" Tweek squeaked.

"Yeah, yeah, gimme my coffee," Cartman said, flicking his wrist as Tweek speed-walked to leave the tray on the intricately engraved nightstand (decorated with multiple patterns of the initials 'EC'). "Did you bring me my cupcakes?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," Tweek mumbled again, dropping a small paper bag onto the nightstand.

Tweek had been shooed out. This wasn't out of the ordinary, and Tweek did as he was told. When he returned to the bottom floor, with the glass windows , marble counters, and large, geometrically patterned chairs, _nicely_ geometrically patterned, that Tweek wasn't allowed to sit in, he was both relieved and disappointed to see that the prince had left on his guinea pig steed, without knowledge of when he would be returning.

Upstairs, the King lay, with a well-brewed batch of coffee and a red velvet cupcake. With the pastry in hand, he stood from his position and somewhat sashayed across his bedroom, which was gargantuan in size (how else could he live in it?). He arrived at a purple curtain that was long enough to touch his royal floor. Pushing the curtain aside with his free hand, he came to a dark corner of stone and chain.

Stepping forward, the tapping of his shoes along with his weight echoed between the walls. He bent forward, inhaling a raw, bloody scent, of flesh, metal, and bananas.

Banana peels littered their surroundings.

The figure he lay his eyes upon, appeared to be asleep, though more likely aware of the King's presence, and chose to ignore it until he was acknowledged.

Cartman smacked his prisoner's skin. He felt dried blood at his fingertips. He smacked him again.

The prisoner looked up. With his wrists shackled above his head, and his ankles locked down, chained to steel weights, his head shook with numb fear and anger. His green eyes gazed up at his highness, glassy and clear, like mirrors.

Cartman glared into the mirrors. He could see himself clearly, as he spoke.

"Semite, Semite, on the wall..." he recited, "Who is the most super cool, and awesome and hot, and totally smart and sexy, guy of them all?"

Kyle looked up higher, laughing a silent laugh, grinning a toothy grin of blood and banana-stained teeth. "Certainly not _you_, you raging fatass—"

"Don't call me _fat, _you stupid fucking Jewish douchebag," was Cartman's quick comeback, and it obviously wasn't the best he'd come up with - it was just a reflex, and it was white noise to Kyle's ears.

The prisoner laughed again. "Don't even start with me, Cartman," he said calmly.

Cartman stepped back from Kyle, subconsciously careful about stepping on a peel. After biting into his cupcake again, he leaned forward and gripped Kyle's chin between his fingers.

"You always tell me what I want to hear," he whispered. Kyle's eyes were closed. "Is there a problem?"

"Get your fucking cupcake out of my face."

Cartman furrowed his eyebrows down as he devoured the last of the red velvet cupcake. Continuing his demands, he clinched Kyle's jaw strongly, squishing his thin skin between his meaty fingers. He tried to still Kyle's shivering head as he seethed. "Is there someone else?"

Cartman released his face before Kyle could scream. "The barista," he said, mirror-eyes gawking up widely, reflecting Cartman's horrified expression.

"The coffee kid?" he queried with genuine confusion.

"Who the hell else?" Kyle shot back. "I cannot even believe you could be living under the impression that you're the hottest shit in the land. You're so full of yourself that you can't even consider beauty in someone else other than _yourself._" His eyelids fluttered downwards, red eyelashes lightly kissing his pale skin as he continued in a calmer tone. Cartman couldn't see himself anymore. "You're fucking blind, Eric Cartman, you're a blind son of a bitch and you don't know _anything_ about—"

"_No_—!" Cartman roared, bringing a strong hand to the redhead's skin again, "you shut your fucking Jew mouth."

"You have frosting on the side of _your _mouth," Kyle inquired nonchalantly, sporting a Joker-like smile, even after having been smacked - the pain had subsided from the hits before. His cheek was numb and red. Not earning any response from his highness, he continued. "His name is Tweek. I don't know if you ever bothered learning it—"

"I fucking know his name."

"I was just checking," Kyle said with a shrug - only as much as he _could_ shrug, what with his numbing muscles. "Dude, Tweek's skin, have you seen that shit? It's so _white._ Like _snow._"

Cartman looked intrigued.

"And his eyes," he went on, a glint in his own greens, "dark. Like black coffee."

"Are you going anywhere with this?"

"Did I ask you?" Kyle snapped. "Anyway. His hair... it's yellow." His head lowered. He looked at the stone floor, his folded bare legs, his surroundings. "Yellow. Like..." Long neck arching up, he began a laugh, "bananas," he finally whispered. "Bananas!" He cried louder, leading his hoarse voice into a cackle now, "Motherfucking _bananas!"_

Cartman, thick eyebrows practically touching in the middle, looked more than unimpressed. He wouldn't touch Kyle again. He wouldn't, _couldn't, _bear to hear the truth or whatever it was Kyle was telling him or laughing about now. He needed to get his way.

Tweek Tweak had to die.

* * *

A large percentage of henchmen belonged to the population of Cartman's kingdom. He needed people to get his shit done, whatever that shit happened to be. His most recent errand that needed to be ran, the murder of Tweek Tweak, could only be accomplished by a strong, intimidating, skilled, _willing_ henchman.

"Oh, boy, Eric! This sounds awful serious! I'd be happy to run the errand for you, I, I just need a little bit of information, and, and an address and it'll be done in no time!"

"Don't get excited, Butters. I don't need you to go on a KFC run for me, I need this shit done, and I need it done _now_," he snapped at the shorter manboy, as he lead him down a carpeted hall. "Don't walk so fuckin' slow, either, I mean, jeez."

Butters skipped to catch up with Cartman, who he nearly bumped into when he came to a halt. "Ehh, what is it you need me to do, Eric? Do I, do I have to go very far? You know the Burger King is an awful long horseride from here..."

"You fag, it's not a fuckin' food run. I need you to kill someone."

"WHAT?"

"Oh, calm your tits, it's not a big deal. Just hear me out, here, Butters," he said. "You're just gonna have to kill Tweek, okay? See? Nothing to worry about."

Butters was still shaking. He twiddled his thumbs with the nervousness Cartman predicted so well, so he continued to explain the task.

"Okay. Okay, Butters, are you listening to me? Butters. _Butters!"_

"W-Whaaaa..." He mumbled inaudible words, not that they _were _words - but he nodded, to confirm he was all ears.

"Okay. I call this mission, _Operation: Cannot Possibly Fail_," he said, pointing to a chalkboard of his plan at the end of the hall. "You take Tweek to the forest," his thick fingers hovered over some poor drawings of trees, "and _theeeen_... you have him pick some like, berries or flowers or something."

"Why?"

"Shut the fuck up, I'm not done. Anyway. Since Tweek is gonna be picking berries or flowers or whatever, and tell him _I _told him to so he'll do it without question, and then _that's_ when you come in with the knife and kill him or whatever." The final panel of his diagram portrayed stick figures of Butters and Tweek, Butters coming at him with a knife, Tweek wearing an expression of fright with some exaggerated tears and blood and guts everywhere. Butters squeaked.

"That..." Butters started, "... that seems pretty... easy."

"But there's a catch."

"Oh, hamburgers."

"How can I be so sure you killed him and you're not just lying?" Cartman questioned.

"I, I would never lie, Eric! Never, ever, ever!"

"I would hope not, Butters. That's why you gotta bring me his heart. In this box, right here." He reached behind a small server-like wooden table, where there were folded boxes, most of which looked practicially mutilated and torn. He retrieved a smaller cardboard box, colored white and red. "Yeah, this one."

Butters squinted. "A KFC biscuit box...?"

"Well, yeah, duh." He tossed it in Butters' direction. He missed and the box hit the floor. He picked it up before Cartman could notice. "So don't fuck me over, you little fag."

"Yes, sir - wait, no, sir, I won't, ah, fuck you over." Butters bowed with the flimsy box in hand.

"That's what I like to hear."

* * *

"I, I don't understand why the king would want me to pick flowers," Tweek squeaked as Butters lead him through the forest. The forest, dark, and scary, and full of too many trees and bugs and wild animals and poison, oh, _God, _the poison... Tweek could hardly walk with the anxiety that was taking over him in this setting. He was at least glad to have a trusted soul with him, Butters, who he wasn't so sure could quite possibly protect him, should he get mauled by a bear. He thought maybe there would be a chance the bear would eat Butters first, giving him more time to run.

In the midst of his thoughts, Tweek scratched his neck. "I don't know why he wanted me to wear this dress, either," he complained. He was nearly tripping over the long gown, which was doused in soft primary colors. "This collar is itchy!"

"You... You're breaking my balls," Butters recited. "Just, just pick 'em. King said so. He also said he wanted berries."

Tweek didn't want to question, but he was more worried than confused at the moment. "Oh, _God_, where am I going to find berries and flowers close to each other? There's just... _trees! _Trees, _everywhere! _What if one of them falls?" Tweek turned to Butters, who wasn't much larger than him in build nor height. "What if a squirrel throws a bunch of nuts and I get concussed?"

Butters didn't say anything. Tweek turned back again, walking carefully over logs and sticks. He then reached a bush of red berries - a rush of relief flowed through him, eliminating the worry that there weren't any berries at all in this forest. "Butters? Do these look poison to you?" he asked. "Oh, jeez, if I poisoned the king, I'd be in deep shit..." He turned around again.

Butters wasn't there.

"Butters?" he squeaked. His eyes darted around in panic. "Butters? Ohmygod, ohmygod, they took him, they took him, Jesus Christ, I'm next, oh, _God_..."

"Tweek?"

The sound Tweek made could not have been described in any human language, needless to say, Tweek startled himself more than he did Butters, but after Butters' small flinch, Tweek, again, squealed some sort of animal call that perhaps only mice could hear, at the sight of Butters holding a knife.

"OHMYGODPLEASEDON'TKILLMEOHGODIKNEWITI'MSORRYIDIDN'TMEANTODRINKTHAT—"

"I can't do it!" Butters cried, dropping the knife at his feet and bringing a hand to his face in utter shame. "Aw, geez, Tweek. I, I'm awful sorry. It's just that, eh, Eric told me to kill you and bring him your heart, in this-here box," he held up the folded cardboard, "but I can't do it!"

Tweek remained in his shaking state, but the look he was expressing could only be described as anger. A Tweek-like anger, of course, what with the lip-pout and small furrowed eyebrows. "Butters, man, you gave me a goddamn heart attack!" He pointed an accusing finger at the other. Butters looked at him with sorrow, with surrendering hands. Tweek's expression softened into his default worry. "Jesus fucking Christ, why does he want to kill me?"

Butters lowered his hands. "Because you're prettier than him."

"... _What?"_

"It doesn't matter! If he finds out I didn't kill you, he'll kill me and he'll kill my parents and everyone and he'll come back and kill you!"

Tweek screamed.

"Run!" Butters cried, "Run away and don't come back, ever, ever, ever, ever!" He clenched his fists and shut his eyes so that when he opened them again, Tweek would be gone and he would have the weight of the world off his shoulders. When he did open them, Tweek was gone, and he didn't know which direction he ran in, he didn't know where he was going to go, and he didn't want to know.

He only had one problem.

"Aw, hamburgers, where am I gonna get a heart now?" He asked the air, and lo, enter stage left, came an orange-clad peasant walking casually through the forest for no particular reason whatsoever.

The peasant looked concerned. Crossing paths with the nervous henchman, he stopped in his tracks and pointed over his shoulder with a gloved thumb. "Dude, the fuck did you do to him?" he asked.

"Kenny!" Butters cried with excitement, "Boy, am I glad to see you!"

"What. Dude, that fuckin' kid over there was running like he left the goddamn oven on. Screaming his head off, too, the hell did you do?"

"W-Well, the king wanted me to kill Tweek, because he got all butthurt that Tweek's hotter than him," (Kenny, at this point, smiled at that fact, because he, everyone he knew and everyone's mother thought Tweek was _fine),_ "and he wanted me to bring him his heart, in this-here box, to prove that I killed him, but I couldn't do it! I couldn't! So I told him to run away and never come back so the king won't kill him or me or anyone, but now I got an empty biscuit box, and no heart to give to Eric, so now he's gonna—he's gonna..." He was almost beginning to break down. Kenny was already rolling his eyes. "He's gonna make everyone into _chiliiii!_"

Kenny sighed. "Well, it's okay, Butters, you can have my heart," he said in a near-reluctant tone. He was slightly annoyed, that he was giving up his heart to this kid, when he had _just _returned from a visit to Hell and he had a horse to catch to go buy some extra Pop-Tarts with his leftover cash. He was probably going to lose that cash on his way back down, but it was better for him to die, than others and their families, for a silly little missing heart.

"What? I can't kill you! I—I—"

Kenny began to strip himself of his jacket. "Yeah, sure, whatever. I'll be back tomorrow, so just take it." He stood directly in front of Butters, bare chest ready. "Well?"

"Kenny, I..."

"I won't feel it. Just go."

And so he did.

He tried to go as fast as he could, so that he, nor Kenny, would feel the pain or whatever it was someone felt when they were trying to gauge a heart out of someone's chest. Butters' eyes were closed more than half the time. When he killed almost all the layers of Kenny's flesh, he came in contact with his ribcage, and he knew a heart had to be in there _somewhere_.

He was sure he'd gotten it. It wasn't a liver nor a kidney nor a pancreas, and Butters wasn't really that good with human anatomy to begin with, so he liked to think he did a pretty good job.

He just hoped Kenny wouldn't feel it when he came back tomorrow.

After multiple attempts to correctly fold the biscuit box, he dropped the heart inside it, sealed it shut, muttered something about how gooey it was, and went his merry way.

* * *

Butters arrived at the castle, only to find an eager king waiting at the main entrance.

"Did you get it, Butters? Did you—_woah_."

Butters stood in the doorway, clothes, skin and hair, stained with blood. "Yeah, I got it." He dropped the cardboard box onto the end table, standing by the king's maroon sofa.

Cartman held the box in his lap. He looked down at it with somewhat of an ecstatic grin on his face. When he popped it open, he held the bloody, fresh heart in his hand, taking in its scent, its texture, as he caressed the organ on his face, eyes closed. "Yes, the sweet, sweet, blood of the innocent," he murmured.

Butters stared. "Ah, Eric, can you, um, not do that?"

Cartman opened his eyes. "Come with me, Butters."

"What, why, Eric, what are you going to get me into now? I, I already got you his heart!"

"Oh, don't worry, Butters. It'll be fun."

He didn't believe him. "What, what are we going to do?"

"We're going to bake a cake."

* * *

Tweek's trek through the forest could only be described as dreadful. The trees were scary (he'd screamed), the bushes were scary (he'd screamed), the sticks and logs were scary (he'd screamed), the adorable woodland critters were scary (he calmed down, up until they stated that they should rape him, and/or gauge his eye out and pee in his eye socket, then he screamed).

After encountering the woodland critters, he ran for dear life more than he ever had, which was fairly difficult due to his riding-up pantyhose. He tripped over his designer flats and chose not to get up this time - this time, he only lay there for a couple of minutes, crying in all his misery and fright and hoped to God and everything in this world that was holy that he would not see the woodland critters again.

When he lifted his head, he caught sight of a peculiar, small, rather adorable cottage.

Usually, his initial thoughts about it would be something like, _Jesus, don't go in there, they're gonna wanna fatten me up and turn me into Tweek soup, _or, _Who the hell lives in the middle of a forest and manages to make a goddamn living?, _or, _time for me to get the fuck out of this goddamn forest or I'm going to die for sure._

Each thought didn't differ too much from the other, either way he was going to be like, _oh, shit, what the fuck?_

But, this time, a little something told him that he should go inside, and he was hoping it was just a voice in his head and not another talking fucking animal.

He stood up. Approaching the window, he used his hand to wash away the bits of dust that fogged his view. When he looked inside, his initial thought this time was, _messy, messy, messy! _

He tried the doorknob. He expected any normal person, just like him, to lock their door just in case any burglars wanted to break in and steal your stuff. Especially in a forest like this, Tweek thought that anyone who lived in it would have themselves a nice little high-tech security system to keep their house the fuck away from demented little woodland critters.

However, none of these theories came to be, when Tweek ended up stumbling into the little house through their wide-open door.

"_Jesus_—!" was his first cry, at the door opening so suddenly, "Holy shit!" was his second cry, at the sight of all the filth. Dishes piled up for miles, cobwebs littered the ceilings and the furniture, and everything was covered with a thick layer of dust and dirt.

Lastly, the main thing that was prickling Tweek's skin and pounding in his head over and over, was the underpants.

_Underpants, underpants, underpants._

_Everywhere._

He couldn't take it.

He kicked off those uncomfortable, not to mention _ugly_ shoes, and just began to clean to his heart's content.

_The dishes have to be clean so one can eat again, or else you'd be eating off dirty, dirty dishes, and that creates mold and bacteria and filth, oh, God, such filth, how could anyone live in it? Do these people eat with their hands or are they all about to die from some sort of food bacteria poisoning? And, oh, Jesus, there's dust everywhere, how do they even see their furniture? Are they goddamn immune to sneezing? And holy Jesus, the cobwebs! Think about how many spiders live here or have even had their home tainted from the filth that is this house? But oh, God, why would anyone want to keep spiders in their house, they are just so ugly and scary and horrible, just like_—

Gnomes.

This house belonged to _gnomes_.

Tweek held a hand over his mouth. He wanted to scream. His voice was already hoarse from all that scary forest crap, but it didn't get any better when he came to the epiphany.

The house was already clean. There was a gnome standing in the doorway.

His squeaky voice bellowed, "Hey, what the fuck?"

Another one, almost identical, though with a different colored hat and beard, approached behind him. "What is it?"

"There's a hot chick in our house!" he cried.

"_Gyah!_ I'm not a chick!" Tweek yelled, wanting to run, to hide, to get away from this whole thing - he attempted to hide behind several pieces of furniture, but everything was much too small.

"There's a dude in a dress in our house."

The second gnome blinked. "Is that why it's so clean in here?"

"Where are our underpants?" A third gnome whined. Another batch of gnomes followed behind the first three, clutching wooden buckets of more underpants. "Does this mean we have to do another season of mining?"

"Quiet, man, I think he wants something," a red-hatted gnome said. He courageously walked towards the larger, shaking figure.

"Let's steal his underpants!" One called from the back.

The red-hatted one turned around, arching an eyebrow. He looked at Tweek. Tweek looked at him.

"Have mercy?" Tweek squeaked.

The gnome shrugged. He trotted closer, touching the soft yellow fabric of Tweek's gown with his small hand. He lifted it up and ventured inside.

"HEYWHATTHEFUCKGETOUTOFTHERE—!"

"HE'S NOT WEARING ANY!" the red-hatted gnome cried. Tweek slapped around in his dress, hoping to hit the gnome, where ever his weak spot may be. The gnome whimpered small sounds of fright, and he scurried out of Tweek's dress, panting a storm.

"Hey, calm down, man! We're just trying to make a profit!" he snapped.

"A profit doing what? Going up people's dresses and invading their personal space?"

"Underpants!" one cried.

"UNDERPANTS!" the rest responded in unison.

Tweek didn't even know what to do at this point. Run, and get raped by woodland critters, or stay, and have gnomes ramble about underpants and invade his personal space bubble.

He chose the latter.

"You're welcome for cleaning your house, by the way," he commented bitterly, standing up to his feet and brushing off his dress.

"Why'd you do it?"

"Because this place was fucking filthy, that's why!" Tweek shouted. He was almost fuming and he didn't know whether to be more angry with their ungratefulness or frightened for his well-being.

He didn't make a choice.

"Woah, this girl has an attitude," one whispered to his neighbor. It was loud enough for Tweek to hear. He stomped his foot.

"I'M NOT A CHICK!"

"You act like one."

"_GYYYAAAHHH!_"

* * *

Eric Cartman had baked a red velvet cake.

Well, technically, _he_ hadn't baked it, his bottom baking bitch had baked it for him. It was as red and velvety as red velvet cake could get. The frosting was delicious, the cake itself was scrumptious.

And of course, it couldn't have been so complete without an extra, crucial ingredient - the blood, and the organs of the innocent.

The King had never been more satisfied.

"Semite, Semite, on the wall..." he recited again. He belched. "Who is the most super cool, and awesome and hot, and totally smart and sexy, guy of them all?"

Kyle didn't want to play games. "Tweek," he said.

"What."

"Tweek," he said again. "You know who I'm talking about."

"You. You can't be serious."

Kyle laughed. "Oh, but I am," he said. He flipped a red curl out of his face. His mirror eyes looked as honest as could be, and oh, how Cartman hated it.

"But he's _dead_!"

"Hahaha, how about no. He's still very much alive." Kyle could see Tweek. He was negotiating, with small people. There was a lot of yelling and arguing, but for Tweek, that was all good and well. "I don't know what you have around your mouth, but it didn't belong to Tweek."

"Butters! That _son of a bitch!_" Cartman roared.

"Yeah, Eric?" Butters poked his head out from behind the curtain, slightly covered in flour from helping with the baking. He wasn't allowed to eat the cake, but he was always glad to help, so long as he wasn't dead.

"Butters. You told me. That you killed Tweek. And you gave me his heart. In the biscuit box."

Butters turned white. The flour was invisible. "Well. Of course, Eric. That's, that's what I did. Isn't that right, Kyle? Tweek's dead? Cartman's the coolest in the land again?"

Kyle grinned his Joker grin. "No. Butters is lying." He turned to Cartman. "He killed Kenny."

Cartman gasped, and poked a mean, shaking finger at his henchman. "You _bastard_!"

"Oh, hamburgers," Butters mumbled. Cartman's face, his eyes, were practically flaming, and Butters' stomach had never dropped a bigger pit in his life.

Oh, boy, he was gonna get it now.

* * *

"Okay. Okay. We'll let you stay, if we _don't_ call you a chick, we _don't_ ask you to clean stuff, and we _don't_ invade your personal space bubble."

Tweek tapped his chin. "Seems like a pretty good deal," he said calmly. He paced back and forth in the room, thinking of conditions and rules. "Also, I don't cook," he said. "And I don't like country music, so don't play any. Um... okay?" He tried to smile. He knew he looked crooked.

The gnomes nodded and clapped in agreement. They began to whisper among each other. Tweek could only make out the word "underpants," so he could only assume they were just talking about business.

"We have to... go out again," said a gnome, whose hat seemed to be shorter than the others, "but while we're gone, you have to promise us something."

Tweek scratched his temple. "_Jesus_, what is it this time?

"Don't open the fucking door for fucking anyone," he said. "We're serious."

"_GAH!_ I wouldn't, anyway! Those woodland critters are fucking insane!"

"Okay, _good_," the gnome replied. He lead his group out the door, and Tweek was alone again.

Cartman didn't have to do much to make himself look ugly (at Kyle's comment, of course, which earned him another numbing smack and some more bananas) but it did take him a while to make himself look _different_. He'd had a lot of disguises - most of which were drag outfits. He didn't mind. He knew he looked damn foxy as a chick.

He was escorted to the gnomes' cottage by a horse named Philip, who seemed to know where the house was for no particular reason. In his little basket of goodies, he held some fries, biscuits, KFC, a couple of cheeseburgers, and a cup of Harbucks coffee.

He'd practically fallen off the horse when he arrived. He knocked on the door, with one plan in mind.

"Hey, um, open the door?" That was his only possible attempt at sounding kind.

Silence on the other end. He waited.

"Who is it!" He finally heard. He knew that voice.

"Um. Kelly," he said in a high tone.

"Kelly who?"

"Kelly... Rutherfer... mintzkin."

"Give me one good reason I should let you in!" Tweek cried. He kept his hand on the lock.

"I, um." _Don't forget your plan, man! _"I have coffee."

_Coffee?_

Tweek beamed. You could never go wrong with coffee. His hand on the lock, he slowly, very _slowly_ proceeded to unlock it. The face he came to was not a pleasant one, though he could smell the coffee, so bitter and sweet at the same time. It's been forever since he inhaled that smell. Tasted it.

The plump, elderly citizen kindly handed the warm cup to Tweek. He slowly raised it to his lips, ever so eager to taste coffee, once again—

"Wait."

"What, what is it?"

"How do I know this isn't poison?" Tweek asked.

The other blinked and looked around. "Um. Here. I'll drink it," he said. Taking the cup back, he brought the plastic end to his lips. He plugged the tiny opening with his tongue, only to come in short contact with the liquid, and not to consume it. When he brought the cup down, he licked his lips, with a mandatory "Mmm!"

Now that Tweek trusted that it wasn't poison, he had other things to worry about. "You put your mouth on it!" he shouted. "Now I can't drink it, what if you have AIDS?"

"Take off the lid, you fag—!" He was so close to stopping himself. Unfortunately, such a thing was possible. "I mean. Why don't you take off the lid, dearie?"

Tweek blinked. He guessed that would work, and, _God, _how he wanted that coffee. "Okay," he said quietly. He popped the top off the cup, and slowly drank the warm, bittersweet coffee.

Sure enough, he passed out on the floor.

The gnomes were already home.

Cartman fled.

"JESUS CHRIST!" One cried. "What'd I tell him? What the hell did I tell him?" The others shrugged. They looked at each other sorrowfully, taking off their hats and putting them over their hearts, silently reciting prayers. "We knew him for like a day," the same one said, "Oh, well. Let's put him in the glass coffin."

Green Hat and Yellow Hat high-fived. "Sweet, we finally get to use it!"

And so, the gnomes hauled out a beautiful, untouched glass coffin. Working together to carry Tweek, they brought his cold, unconscious body to the pillowy inside, and closed it upon him, so they can stare at his beauty for as long as he was passed out.

The scenario seemed serene - the gnomes had never seen something more beautiful. The rays of sunlight poured down on the glass, flower petals fluttering side to side in the air. Tweek lay with his hands folded neatly and properly. His snow-white skin was as white as, some would put it, _snow_, and his hair was as yellow as—

"Woah, hot dead body, six o'clock, Stripe!"

A voice from the distance broke the scene. The gnomes looked up, only to see a noble prince, on a noble guinea pig steed, riding towards their beautiful dead barista in the glass coffin.

"Hey, buddy, what do you think you're doing?" A gnome pressed.

Craig dismounted his guinea pig and approached the glass. "Holy shit, it's Tweek," he said.

The gnomes did not look happy. "Dude, he's dead. There's nothing you can do now."

"Can I keep his body?"

"What the fuck are you, some sort of necrophiliac?"

"Yes! I mean, no! He's not dead! Look, he's breathing." He gestured to his chest, which was peacefully heaving up and down.

The gnomes cried in unison, "_Ohhhh!"_

"Yeah, get your goddamn facts straight before you pronounce someone dead, geez." And with that, he flipped open the coffin and laid a nice, wet one on Tweek's lips. His eyes shot open in surprise.

"_GYAH!_" He shouted, "How long have I been out?"

"Like, an hour," a gnome deadpanned.

"Oh."

Craig turned to Tweek and immediately lifted him up in his arms, bridal style. "So, wanna ride off together in the sunset?" he asked.

Tweek shrugged. "Eh, okay."

And so the rode off in the sunset on Craig's guinea pig steed, telling each other their life stories and singing nonsense songs in twelve bars, and they lived happily ever after.

Except for Cartman who was still really ugly and not cool, and Butters who had to eat his parents and Kyle who was still Cartman's prisoner, and the gnomes didn't have a hot dude in a dress in their house anymore.

**THE END.**


End file.
